Morning Sunshine
by Agent Notorious
Summary: Morning is usually a time for reflection and past wanderings. [OneShot]


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"Morning Sunshine"

He wasn't necessarily a great and noble man, and he wasn't necessarily a morning man. But he was her man. 

At least until the moment passed by.

He was around his late twenties, but the years were rough on him and though appearing young and youthful on the outside, his soul was weighed down by wrong doings over the years. He was a thief, a father, a murderer, and an Irishman by blood and bonds. 

His skin was bronzed and tan from exposer to the California sun; his height average sized around 6'5", though he appeared towering over the others, a brooding soul intimidating those around him who didn't know him. His form was sculpted like a god's. No imperfection, no extra fat, no flaws. Every muscle earned through hard work and discipline; every contour a gift. His eyes a dark chocolate, every passion, every emotion making itself known. His dark hair was cut short, but not too short; a moderate and comfortable cut. 

To her though, his best feature were his hands. Grasping and holding, keeping her away from the unforgivable licks of flames. She always shivered in excitement and a lingering sense of fear when he ran his hands over her shoulders and around her back. And no matter how hard she tried to nip the fear in the bud, it grew back like a weed every time she saw those long, slender fingers curl around each other and create an arc of energy; of electricity. 

He had told her of his history, of his past, even if it was with hesitance. He had felt the need to keep this information away from her, keep her protected from the skeletons in his closet. He had told her where he had grown up, where he had gone to school, and who he associated with. His life hadn't been an easy one, and with guilt she was glad she grew up the way she had, even if it was with the cost of her whole daughter-father bond. 

He had grown up in a poor area with his mother, and no father. His father had been drafted in war, and was caught unluckily and killed. His mother had been devastated and in an attempt to help support herself and her son, her only living reminder of her husband, remarried shortly after. 

His step-father was a drunk. An angry drunk. An angry drunk who took out his frustration on his wife and 'spoiled brat' of a step-son. And even though life her life was hard, she stuck with her second husband in hopes her son would receive the childhood he deserved. But her son wasn't happy with her decision to remarry or in her choice of a husband, and he venomously voiced his opinion at the price of a few well placed hits. 

In an effort to escape his step-father, he joined an after school program at his local public school. He had chosen the most logical one there was: Karate. Not only did it allow him time away from his home, it taught him discipline and combat styles. The perfect thing for his situation!

But in his own fear and selfishness, he neglected his mother. Without him there she was the main focus to his step-father's rage. Years went pass after he had joined the after school program, and it was beginning to take into affect. His mother had fallen into a depression, and in her weaken state from the constant beatings, it wore her down. His step-father had beaten his mother out of submission and into death. 

His mother gone, his step-father sent to jail under charges of first degree murder, he had no one there for him; no one for him to fall back upon. Instead he was uprooted from his run downed neighborhood and dropped into a stranger one right into a foster home. He supposed the family was nice, didn't really know. He had never paid them attention during his time with them, never really knew their names. 

Caught up in his guilty conscience and depression he fell the only way he could at that point; down. He had found alliance with a rowdy bunch of teenagers. Found comfort in the form of drinking, drugs, and sex. He had ignored all teachings he had learned from that after school program, and turned his back on his mother's memory. 

Though he didn't see it, he was beginning to slowly become like the man he hated most; his step-father. He began to rely on the alcohol, abusing it, while he bottled up the rage self loathing he felt, until he had snapped. 

The girl had bared a striking resemblance to his mother, and so he had invited her to drink with him. But in his drunken stupor, he was beginning to believe that she was his mother, brought back from the dead. He had trapped her in his strong arms, squeezing her so hard that she began crying in pain. He had cried on her shoulder, telling her that he had been a 'naughty, naughty boy' drinking and getting high. He had burrowed his head in her neck, ignoring the girl's distraught crying. She had tried pushing him away, only causing him to tighten his already tight grip, even harder, until she had burst out that she wasn't his mother. 

He had snapped. He didn't know why but he had snapped, and in his rage he began hitting the girl. He had beaten the life out of her, tears of rage streaming down his face. And when he realized what he did, he panicked and ran. He didn't know where he was going only knowing that he had to get out and away from the city. 

It was later that he found out her name was Jeanette Corniche, and that she was two years younger than him. He had found out she was a junior in the local private high school, and that she had only come to the place where his 'friends' hung out was all because of a dare. It was then he swore off alcohol. 

He had wound up in a new city, but even in a new place he could still picture the look of fear on her face. But most of all he could still see the crimson blood staining his hands. 

In an effort to help support himself, he began teaching others the martial arts he learned throughout his childhood and most of his teen years. That had lasted for a few years, until the building he was using burned down. 

Dragging his massive form down the dirty, rat infested streets, he had stumbled upon a mugging. It was his mood for a fight over the frustration of losing his living, than the actual want to help that caused him to spring into action. He had quickly took out his opponent, with a few simple moves. When he turned towards the victim, he was overcome with the recognition of his step-father. The bastard had gotten off with a few well placed bribes and good behavior. 

The man's image had brought back painful memories. Memories of his mother's battered form; memories of his denied childhood. And with those memories, a rage unlike no other came up to the surface. He felt every muscle tense up with pent up frustration, his toes curling inside his shoes, as he glared at his step-father. The bastard had the dignity to come up to him, and smack him on the back as if they were old buddies. The bastard hiccupped and smiled a wavering drunken smile, his breath reeking of alcohol. Smelling that foul odor, he had felt something snap within his body. 

The air around him crackled with static electricity, before a new odor filled the air. One of charred flesh. His step-father no more. He had called upon a power inside himself, one he had received hints about as a young boy, but one he had ignorantly ignored. But now it was clear. He had a gift. A gift with magnificent potential. 

It was over the course of a few years, that he began mastering his gift. Years of which he made useful. He had used his power for self gain. Used it for personal reasons. He was great at what he did, his thieving. He made sure never to be too careless, but one day it just slipped out of his control.

Somehow it had gotten out about his gifts to a group of high-tech thieves. Normal and abnormal. But the thing appealing to him was the fact that he was needed, and that they didn't know him. He could make a brand new life, and this was his ticket. One which he purchased and used to its full capacity. He was great at what he did. There was no one of the team that his particular gift, and he used that to his full advantage. He had stolen millions in value with his team, the rush of adrenalin an extra perk. In honor of their biggest heist ever, they went to a club popular to the young and the beautiful. And it was there that he met the main thing in his life today. He had found Emma deLauro which in turn helped him find Mutant X which in turn helped him find her. 

Slender fingertips traced the defined lines of his chest and stomach, hazel eyes focused on his face. Blond hair spilled over bare shoulders as Shalimar Fox leaned forward to brush her lips against his. She opened her eyes to meet chocolate ones and smiled a soft smile. 

He returned her greeting with another kiss, this one lasting longer than the first. His hands wandered from her sides to her long, blonde locks as he rolled them over. Looking down at her, his eyes memorized the way her hair fluttered around her head like a halo, while his fingers traced her face. A smile tugged at his features as he remembered last night, their first night, together, before brushing his lips over her smiling one. 

"Mornin' Sunshine."

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-End-

Disclaimer: I never own and tell. Meaning: Don't own, don't sue. 

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There. Not the best, but I just wrote this on a whim. This was originally going to be an Emma/Brennan fic seeing as how I prefer her over Shalimar any day. ***cough*slut*cough***_ But I realize that it was better than having Emma as main lady. But anyway, that's my attempt on a _Mutant X_ story, well one of many. This one was a one-shot back story (my input of course) of the handsome Brennan Mulwray. Not the best like I said, but I didn't reread this or make changes, except of course spelling errors. _

In an attempt to say sorry to Emma, I'm writing a story, maybe series, about her during third season. So basically, I'm screwing with their character, mostly Lexa, since I haven't seen many season three episodes after Lauren left the show. I'm still hoping that she'll come back from the dead. It could happen. I mean, it happens all the time in soap operas…Why not here?

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Agent Notorious


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